The first cut is the deepest
by Keltic Banshee
Summary: First times are never what you expect them...


The first cut is the deepest

The Hub is quiet. Well, as quiet as it ever gets, the myriad of noises that usually blend into the background taking centre stage now that everything – everybody – else is gone. There is something about the Hub at this time of the night, when it is no longer a Torchwood workplace and it becomes once again his personal domains, his own space. His home, almost, after so long, despite his efforts to stay detached and not allow himself to settle. Steps echo in the corridors as he does his rounds. Reassuring. Calming. Measured.

Yet something feels different tonight. Out of place. Even if he can't quite put his finger to it. As he approaches the door to the Archives, the rasping of a wire brush against the concrete floors becomes a distinct, separate sound. He stops in his tracks, wondering what could be causing it at such a late hour. He can't really picture one of the Weevils escaping its cell and deciding to start _cleaning_ the place, of all things. He takes a couple of careful steps, instinct kicking in and making him bring his back closer to the wall, just in case. He may be able to come back to life, but that doesn't make death any more pleasant.

He almost laughs when a voice drifts drifts towards him, thick with a Welsh accent . He finds himself smiling as he turns the corner and is welcomed by the most unexpected – yet not unwelcome – sight. Ianto, wearing frayed jeans and a crisp white tshirt, is half-sitting, half-kneeling on the floor, just within reach of a purple, gooey stain, a bowl of soapy water beside him. Ianto lets out another curse and throws the brush into the bowl, water splashing everywhere. He is probably smiling like the cat that got the cream. Who wouldn't?

"A bit late for spring cleaning, don't you think?" Ianto looks over his shoulder and gives him a murderous look. For a second, he has to wonder if a day will go by without one of Ianto's scowls being thrown his way, for one reason or another, from not signing paperwork in time for it to be filed away to allowing freshly brewed coffee to go cold in its mug. Ianto closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, one hand almost coming up to straighten a tie that isn't t there, tongue coming out nervously over lips that aren't really dry.

"Someone has to clear after our beloved Owen, since he seems to think it is below his dignity to even touch a cloth." Ianto snaps back before he's even had time to think of a witty remark to add. Not a raised voice – Ianto never raises his voice - but there is a strong undercurrent of anger to the words. Ianto turns his back to him again, picks up the brush and starts scrubbing again. The purple on the floor lightens a bit, but something tells him it'll take a lot more than water and soap to get rid of the stain. "Even when it is one of his alien corpses that causes the mess."

"Well, you have to give it to Owen, he has style when it comes to being messy." Ianto snorts, the corners of that lovely mouth curling up in the beginning of a smile. A very sarcastic, almost dangerous smile, so fleeting he almost misses it. He leans on the wall, arms crossed in front of him, and raises an eyebrow. "It's one of his many talents." Along with being a pain and often to self-centred to even notice that there is a world out there. But Owen is a good doctor, and a valuable asset to Torchwood.

He swallows, pushing away the thoughts of where Owen would be now if their paths hadn't crossed, if alien creatures hadn't nested in his fiancée's brain, if life had carried on being a succession of nine-to-five days. Certain things are not worth knowing. Certain things are not worth torturing himself with.

Doesn't mean he will stop.

A splashing sounds brings him back to the here and now. Ianto has thrown the brush into the bowl again, and is now slowly, almost methodically, drying his hands, back turned towards him. There is something intriguing about Ianto, something alluring about the silence, the stony facade and the way Ianto keeps his distance. He's worn masks and lived other people's lives for long enough to recognise the signs, but so far not even he has managed to sneak under Ianto's defences. Something he'll have to rectify soon. It's not like him to have people in his team he doesn't know inside out, he can't read like an open book.

Not since... well, since _certain people_ he'd rather not think about who still manage to occupy his mind more often than it's healthy.

Ianto tucks the drying cloth on a back pocket and, before he knows it, he's being shoved against the wall rather violently, head almost hitting the brickwork. Ianto's hands fist on his shirt, pulling at it, almost ripping buttons off. Pressing into his chest, pushing him hard, so temptingly close. He's not sure whether to be proud that Ianto is finally taking in the basics of hand to hand combat and using his full body weight to hold him in place, or slightly worried that the anger that has been slowly bubbling away inside Ianto is finally coming out to the surface.

The look in Ianto's eyes, barely inches away from him, is a mixture of too many emotions even for him to decipher.

"Ianto..." He aims for conciliatory, but probably misses by a mile or two. Ianto just pushes him harder, almost shaking him. He raises an eyebrow, inquisitive, and keeps his arms to his sides. He could easily shake Ianto off. If he needed to. If he _wanted_ to. But somehow it all feels too good, the threat of violence he just _knows _ won't come to anything, the body pressed firmly against his, the strange intimacy of it all. Brings back so many memories, while being entirely new.

He looks straight at Ianto, half daring him to do his worse, half hoping Ianto will just let go. Of conventions, of fears, of everything that holds Ianto – the real person behind the masks – back.

Ianto closes his eyes, lips moving in silent words he can't make out despite being this close. A hand slides from his shirt and slams against the wall, barely an inch from his head. The noise reverberates in the corridor, and Ianto's face contorts in pain for a second. Victorian workmanship makes for very solid walls, as he's been trying to explain to all Torchwood personnel. Without much luck, by the look of it.

Suddenly it all changes. Ianto's hands are still on him, seeking rather than pushing, one of them on the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin. Soft lips press against his, hard and bruising and demanding, with a lingering taste of coffee and a hint of desperation and need. He finds himself blinking, of all things. Wondering _why_ and _how_ he came to be trapped between a very cold wall and a very hot Welshman who seems to have very clear – and interesting – ideas on how a cleaning session should end.

It takes a beat or two for his brain to decide that frankly, it couldn't care less about the details. Ianto's teeth trail over his lips, not quite biting but close enough, sending a shiver down his spine. He's got to admit this comes as a surprise, but a welcome one – he was starting to wonder whether a century in this old-fashioned planet had made him too subtle in his offers, or Ianto would simply never take him up on them.

Ianto's mouth moves down his throat, kissing and biting and bruising – he tilts his head and tries to bite back the moans that sound too close to 'more' and 'please' for comfort. Closing his eyes, he brings a hand to the small of Ianto's back and gets shoved against the wall again. Ianto's stubble after a long day rasps against his skin. It's almost too much, almost too good, after all the waiting and the pretences and the careful and distant use of 'sir'. Ianto's hands sneak down his chest, nails scratching through his shirt. Shaky fingers try to undo his belt while teeth sink into his neck, just below his left earlobe.

A thought manages – somehow – to make it to his brain and hold on in there long enough for him to notice. He takes a deep breath – or as deep as he can, given the things Ianto is doing to him – and places a hand over Ianto's. Ianto just swats it away and attacks his belt again, fingers gaining some coordination and actually managing to get it open this time. He brings both hands up, firmly stopping Ianto in his tracks.

There is a moment of silent struggle, of push and pull, then stillness. The calm in the eye of the storm. Part of him wants to kick himself for most likely just having blown what was gearing up to be a really, really good round of sex. Part of him knows Ianto is most definitely not thinking straight right now, judging by the panting and the hot breaths puffing in his ear.

"Fuck you, Jack." Barely a whisper, and the only warning before Ianto shakes his hands free and renews his attacks. "Don't you dare tell me... I haven't thought this through." He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head again – Ianto raises a knee to just the right place to make him moan. "Because I have." He brings a hand to the back of Ianto's neck and runs a finger from the hairline to the tshirt. Ianto shivers. "Sort of." There is only the slightest hint of trembling, of uncertainty, in Ianto's voice.

He stares at Ianto for a long moment. Ianto just stares back, all defiance and determination and something else he can't quite figure out but makes him wish they never finds themselves on opposites sides of a battlefield, because not even immortality would save him if they did. Hands slide under his undershirt. The first touch is electric and full of promise and life and desperation and death. He takes a deep breath and swallows.

"Well, in that case..." In a well practiced move, he pushes Ianto away and sends him tumbling towards the wall across the corridor. Ianto stumbles backwards but doesn't lose his footing. He crosses the distance between them slowly. Ianto doesn't flinch, doesn't look away, simply grabs the front of his shirt as soon as he is within reach and pulls him into another bruising kiss. He goes with it, hands tentatively running over Ianto's body, seeking, offering and wanting. He finds himself fighting the urge to flip Ianto, to take him roughly against the wall, to defy everything Ianto might have ever thought of him. But it's not the time, not the place.

Not yet, anyway.

Ianto moans in protest when he sinks to his knees, hands deftly undoing belt and jeans, lips teasing skin just above that well defined hipbone. Ianto bucks his hips in an almost desperate move. The jeans slide down, revealing an inch or two of neat black cotton that hugs the body underneath it. Ianto's fingers tighten on the back of his neck, pulling him closer, almost demanding. He holds his ground and looks up, any funny remark he may have been thinking of dying before even been formed at the glare Ianto manages to shoot him through blown pupils and wide eyes.

Ianto's right hand, all long and elegant fingers, comes down and tugs impatiently at the waistband. He swats it away, ignoring the frustrated, almost needy noises. Slowly, deliberately, he pulls the underwear down. There is a moment of quiet stillness as the material slides over hot skin and Ianto's hands scramble for purchase on the wall, only to return to the back of his neck. He nuzzles and teases at the exposed skin, running the tip of his nose randomly, tongue darting off every here and there. Resisting Ianto's insistent pull, nails digging almost painfully.

There's rarely a good reason to rush sex.

Particularly with a new lover.

Ianto lets out a strangled moan at the first swipe of tongue, and he finds himself smiling before swallowing Ianto's cock. He brings a hand to Ianto's stomach, tracing idle patterns and keeping Ianto in place at the same time. Even so, Ianto still manages to push deeper, almost chocking him. It's been a while since someone was this rough with him. And he has to admit he's missed it. There is nothing in the corridor but the smell and sounds of sex, of need, of something that has been postponed for way too long and now comes as a relief.

Fingers dig on his shoulder as Ianto's body tenses. He stills for a second, giving Ianto a moment to catch his breath. When he looks up, he finds Ianto staring at him, expression unreadable even now, despite his best efforts to drive the last shred of thought and control away. He traces Ianto's hipbone with a fingertip, tongue flicking just so.

Ianto comes quietly, tension suddenly evaporating as if it had never been there. He's not entirely sure what that says about Ianto.

He doesn't get a chance to process that thought before Ianto grabs his shirt and pulls him up, one hand sneaking inside his underwear, one arm wrapping around his waist. It all feels a bit clumsy and perfect and new and familiar, all at once. Fingers curl around his cock, tugging a bit too roughly, squeezing a bit too hard. Hot puffs of breath on his neck, and he can feel a different kind of tension building inside Ianto. Something he can't quite put his finger on.

Realisation hits him as the first wave of pleasure explodes through his body, and suddenly it all turns bittersweet. When he leans his forehead on Ianto's, both of them still struggling to catch their breaths, Ianto's eyes are full of regret. Of something too close to pity. As if Ianto _knew_.

He closes his eyes and swallows. There is no way Ianto could have found out. Unless, of course, Ianto has been _reading_ files in the Archives, rather than just shuffling them around. A finger runs down his neck, barely there but enough to make him shiver. Maybe he is overthinking. Seeing things.

Before he knows it, Ianto has somehow managed to sneak from him, and is busy composing himself up, back turned, eyes lost on the end of the corridor. He takes a deep breath, suddenly unsure what to say, what to do. He had almost forgotten how hard it I to handle people he doesn't fully understand.

A harsh half-laugh escapes him. Is that all he does now, _handle_ people?

Ianto looks over his shoulder and opens his mouth. He raises an eyebrow, hoping whatever follows it won't be an apology. Ianto shakes his head and looks away again.

When Ianto picks up the bowl of water from the floor and walks away, he doesn't follow.

It takes a lot of deep breaths and forced calm not to run away from Jack. He's shaking so hard he's splashing water all over the floor as he walks. Water! All over the neat, clean floor he's spent all evening scrubbing because Owen, as usual, couldn't be asked to clean his own mess. He scrunches his eyes and forces himself to take a deep, slow breath. Then another, and the world starts slowly coming back into focus.

He stops in his tracks after turning a corner, leaning his back on the wall. Thoughts spin in his head, and all he can hear is the pounding of blood in his ears. He's too close to Lisa's room, and that is the last place he wants to be if Jack comes looking for him. Probably the last place he wants to be right now. If only he could concentrate and think straight for a second...

First things first. He pushes himself away from the wall and takes a left in the next intersection, heading for the showers. Kept in pristine condition and regularly refurbished, the huge shower room is one of the Hub's best kept secrets. Given the things Torchwood have to deal with on a regular basis, it's only sensible to have such facilities.

The echo of his steps in the corridor makes him cringe. It's almost impossible to hide down here, at least not from someone who knows the nooks and crannies of the place like Jack seems to. Luckily, he seems to be on his own. With a sigh, he crosses the battered wooden door to the showers and curses – once again – the lack of any kind of lock on it. Torchwood have apparently never been big on privacy. Not within the walls of the Hub, anyway.

Leaving the cleaning materials on a side table, he makes his way to one of the cubicles, kicking his shoes off as he goes. He feels tempted to step under the water fully clothed as he is, but sodden jeans are not easy to get out of. Slowly, methodically, he takes his clothes off, trying to ignore the water and goo and come covering them, and stacks them in as neat a pile as he can manage.

When he finally steps under the running shower, water feels good on his skin, hot and hitting aching muscles in just the right way. The pattering is mind numbing, and for a moment – a blissful moment – he _almost_ forgets everything.

Then, just as quickly as it vanished, the whole world comes rushing back in.

Lisa, hidden in one of the rooms in the deeper levels, trapped in the metal contraptions the cybermen added to her body, kept alive by a machine that could very easily be used to destroy the universe.

He hasn't fed the pteranodon yet. Or convinced Toshiko that it _is_ a pteranodon, not a pterodactyl.

Jack, and that infuriatingly enigmatic smile he can't quite decipher, and that way of looking at him that makes him feel he shouldn't have bothered to put on his clothes because Jack can see through them, and that tempting presence and heat and warmth against his body.

The dry cleaning needs picking up in the morning. Whenever morning is. It's hard to keep track when spending most of his days underground.

Lisa, years of memories and plans now put on hold because of what happened in Canary Wharf. Daring against all hope to hope he'll find a way to help her, to make her human again. Never thinking of what will happen if he does, of all that will need to be put behind. Luckily he still has some retcon that could be used. Although he'll probably never dare use it. They could end up forgetting too much, forgetting what brought them together in the first place.

He'll need to get some biscuits as well. Suzie ate the last of them earlier, and there will be shouting and school playground behaviour if Owen can't have his digestives with the first morning coffee.

Jack, and the way the fearless leader who doesn't allow even the Prime Minister to as much as question him doesn't even try to get away when shoved against a wall. The resigned, almost _welcoming_ look when Jack's head hit the brickwork. As if Jack wouldn't have cared if he had punched flesh instead of wall. As if Jack would have preferred it that way. The contradiction, the unexpected _something_ stirring inside him and making him want to shout and scream and find out _why_ Jack didn't even put up a fight.

The fact that there is no surer way to make him _care_ than to look like a lost soul who doesn't think they deserve to be cared for. The fact that he will never forgive Jack for _making_ him care.

He runs a hand through wet hair and reaches for the shampoo. The scent of bergamot and mint fills the air as he starts vigorously scrubbing his scalp, eyes closed. The world, the worries, the frustration, the fear, refuse to go away again. He swallows and pauses, one hand in mid air. A couple of deep breaths later, thoughts are still spinning, refusing to fit into something other than vague, confused feelings of guilt, betrayal, and wishing he hadn't walked away from Jack just yet.

When did his life get so fucked up?

When did being alive start hurting so much?

He tilts his head back, letting the water take away the foam from his hair, and blindly feels around for the bar of soap. Everybody else have lotions and potions in their showers – and wouldn't the world like to know that Owen of all people has more beauty products stashed around the place than the rest of them put together. He sticks to simple, good, old-fashioned soap. It feels solid and real in his hand, and seems to help relax the muscles as he runs it over his body.

If only it were so easy to calm his mind.

He's getting tired of feeling torn, of always being in the middle. Between his feelings for Lisa and knowing he'll do anything he can to save her, and guilt for lying to those that welcomed him with – sort of – open arms. Between Lisa, memories and the hope of a normal life, and the nagging spark of attraction to Jack, who seems to command loyalty without even thinking he deserves it.

He throws the soap towards the wall.

It only bounces back and hits him in the shin.

That is not even mentioning the fact that he just had sex with boss. While at work. Or that said boss happens to be a man. Maybe the fact that it's taken _this long_ for those thought to enter his mind should worry him. Maybe he should be proud such things don't rank that high in the current things that keep spinning around his head. With a sigh, he picks up the soap again and puts it back in its place.

It's been almost half an hour, according to his watch, when he eventually gets out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist. All his usual shopping places will be closed by now, and he's not in the mood to face any of the ones that will still be open at this time. Myfanwy is probably asleep by now, so all he'll have to worry about is making sure there is a good breakfast up in its nest before it wakes up.

That leaves only one thing to do. He grimaces as he pads to his wardrobe – the obviously Victorian piece is way too big to be called a locker - and fishes out a clean set of clothes. Lisa will be waiting for him. He gets dressed, as slowly and methodically as always, and heads for Lisa's room.

His hand shakes when he reaches for the lock on the door. He swallows and takes a deep breath. He could lie to himself, try to convince himself he did what he did because he had to, to protect her. But he knows the truth is very different. Jack has been silently making an offer almost since they met. He's been tempted and curious about it. There is only so long one can go without human contact, without a moment of quiet connection, before going mad.

There is only so long one can deny oneself. And he's never been too good at it.

With a sigh, he opens the door and steps in, closing it behind him. When Lisa opens her eyes and smiles at him, he can't help but think that she knows what he's been up to.

What hurts most, he realises as he leans over her and leaves a soft kiss on her lips, is that he doesn't seem to care if she does.


End file.
